


Song Of The Hive

by agerefandom (tazia101)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Age Regression, Body Horror, Bugs & Insects, Character Study, Corruption Related Horror, Gen, Neglect, Religion, agere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28585821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tazia101/pseuds/agerefandom
Summary: Jane Prentiss: her story as an age regressor, becoming the avatar/host of the Hive.
Kudos: 15





	Song Of The Hive

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on my tumblr, @agerefandom. I'm usually taking agere fic requests there from any sfw blogs! This is my first time mixing regression and horror, but it won't be my last: I deeply enjoy the way that regression interacts with horror tropes and I'd love to write more for The Magnus Archives or other horror media in the future.

Jane grew up alone.

Her parents worked long hours. Family dinner was eaten late, in exhausted silence. Jane would try to tell them about school, and they would hum vague acknowledgements before they stumbled off to bed.

Jane spent time in their backyard. She pushed up the rocks of the path and watched the ants crawl over each other in panic. It made her skin itch, watching them. It felt as though the ants were crawling inside the veins of her wrists, of her neck. She pushed down the feeling and watched them burrow into their little tunnels. It passed the time, watching them move.

When Jane got older, she stayed young sometimes. She would hold her stuffed animals and pretend that someone was holding her. Pretend that someone was caring for her, listening to her when she babbled out loud.

But there was never anyone there.

Jane did her rituals to the goddess when she was little: she would light her candles for the directions, burn her cedar and her sage, and spin around with her arms wide. Sometimes she thought she could feel the universe, the great mother, reaching out and holding her. But the feeling didn’t last long enough, and the candles burned out, and Jane was left young and alone and weeping again.

When it rained, Jane would pick up the worms from the sidewalk and toss them back to the grass. They squirmed in her palm, wet and bulbous and scared. Most of the time, Jane thought of herself as being nice for helping the worms. She was compassionate, she told herself. In tune with the universe, feeling the lifeforce of every little thing that crawled on the earth.

In truth, she just liked watching the worms squirm when she held them. Something about their movements made her feel frightened, but she could prove by holding them and throwing them that she was bigger than they were, more powerful than they were.

And then the hive started singing.

When Jane was big, an adult in brain and body, the song of the hive frightened her. She picked at her skin more, trying to ignore that humming from the attic. She stopped looking under rocks, even though they sang to her of the tunnels underneath them filled with ants. She tried to block out the buzzing with her own music, but there was always the squirming hive underneath.

When Jane was little, the humming was nice. It sounded like a lullaby. She would crouch by the locked door of the attic and sing along, humming and crooning and clicking her tongue. It made her feel less alone. The song promised that she would never be alone. The song promised that she could be young again, cradled, small, and loved.

The song told the truth.

As the worms burrowed into her skin, Jane retreated somewhere inside herself. She could feel the insects around her, inside her. They hummed their familiar song, and Jane hummed back. She was small inside her body. She didn’t have to worry about the long limbs she had grown. She didn’t have to worry about the places her body was walking. She was small, and cradled by a million shifting bodies that sang to her. She was surrounded by love, and she wasn’t alone.


End file.
